What's a man's age? He must hurry more, that's all; Cram in a day, what his youth took a year to hold.
All poetry is putting the infinite within the finite.
Each life unfulfilled, you see; It hangs still, patchy and scrappy: We have not sighed deep, laughed free, Starved, feasted, despaired,โbeen happy.
Good strong thick stupefying incense-smoke!
Death: the grand perhaps.
Into the street the piper stepped, Smiling first a little smile As if he knew what magic slept In his quiet pipe the while. And the piper advanced And the children followed.